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Traveling with humans was a risky business, Geralt had decided. They were squishy and slow and very bad at defending themselves in general, but most notably they were sensitive. It was either too hot, or too cold, or too wet-- they were like hothouse flowers in that regard.
Currently, however, instead of agitated Geralt was just plain worried. The Witcher and Jaskier had made camp for the night only a couple hours ago now, they’d had dinner and settled down into their bedrolls, but Jaskier was shivering to the point of chattering his teeth. Not only was this obnoxiously loud in Geralt’s sensitive ears but so ridiculously worrisome it was starting to make his stomach sick. Jaskier wasn’t even complaining and Jaskier complained about everything. Something was absolutely wrong.
“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice was oddly soft in the quiet of the winter woods they’d been traveling through. There was no response. Geralt sat up, “Jaskier.” Still no response. Geralt shuffled over to Jaskier’s balled up form. The first thing he noticed was Jaskier’s irregularly slow heartbeat, the next thing he noticed was the bard was not, in fact, conscious, and his violent shivering was beginning to slow. Panic shot through Geralt’s chest like an arrow, and he quickly grabbed Jaskier’s shoulder and tugged to turn the man towards him. Jaskier’s lips were sickeningly blue, and when Geralt gently touched two fingers to the bard’s cheek he found it icy cold and almost waxy in texture. “Fuck, fuck, shit-- okay,” Geralt let out a string of expletives as he maneuvered himself and Jaskier into a sitting position, the Witcher cross-legged with the poet sat facing him in his lap. The shivering had stopped entirely now, and the Witcher was fairly confident the bard had gone into hypothermic shock. He had to get Jaskier warm, now.
Geralt pulled Jaskier flush against himself, their chests pressed tightly together, the bard’s face tucked against the Witcher’s neck and limp legs slung around his waist. Geralt took in a sharp breath when he realized he could feel Jaskier’s heartbeat slowing against his own chest, the normal warm human smell that usually rolled off the poet was dull and cold in Geralt’s nose. He reached over to pull Jaskier’s bedroll around them and started rubbing his palm up and down Jaskier’s back, his other arm keeping Jaskier firmly pinned in place.
For several nerve-wracking minutes, all that could be heard was the rustle of fabric as Geralt alternated between rubbing circles into Jaskier’s back and just tucking him as close as possible while swaying slightly like one might cradle a babe. He was far too afraid to leave Jaskier alone to go build a fire, and there wasn’t a town for several days travel in either direction, so the Witcher sat, and rocked, and attempted to push down the storm of painful emotions swirling in his gut.
Afraid, gods, he was actually afraid. Geralt had faced off against countless monsters human and bestial alike, but he had never felt true fear as he did so starkly in this moment. When had Jaskier become so important to him? When was the last time the Witcher let anyone affect him in this way-- enough to worry him sick and frightened like a pup that had wandered away from its mother’s teat. Maybe he was so worried to lose the man because no one else showed him the care the bard did? The genuine concern for his well being when just about every other damned person he met called him a monster or a freak. Not Jaskier. No, Jaskier approached him without fear, joked with him, asked for his opinions on things. Maybe Geralt hadn’t been the best friend to Jaskier thus far, but dammit if he didn’t want the chance to be. The Witcher refused to lose that chance to a cold night on the road, Jaskier deserved better than that anyway.
Geralt took a moment to focus on Jaskier’s heartbeat and found that it had slowly begun to pick up speed. With none too steady hands the Witcher pulled back to hold Jaskier’s face in front of his own and found his lips were almost pink again, and his cheeks no longer felt like that of a corpse. He puffed a warm sigh of relief and pulled Jaskier back in, one hand cradling the back of his head while the other stayed anchored around the smaller man’s waist.
Another few minutes went by with Jaskier’s heartbeat gradually improving, and in contrast, Geralt’s own rapid heart rate slowed back down to its typical crawl. Finally, finally, Jaskier began to stir, and Geralt helped the bard sit up to look around himself.
“Geralt..?” Jaskier slurred, his voice thick and eyes hazy. “What-- what happened?” He sounded so lost and confused and he smelled so warm and alive and Geralt couldn’t contain the burst of emotion that coiled from his throat.
“You almost froze yourself to death you fucking idiot!” the Witcher snapped, and he could feel himself shaking. Jaskier would’ve jumped back at the sudden outburst, and Roach even whinnied from across their campsite, but Geralt still had an iron grip on Jaskier’s waist. The poet was clearly not up to fine motor skills just yet anyway, as his head lolled to the side limply, and his arms stiffly reached out to Geralt, searching. The Witcher made a pained sound in the back of his throat and grabbed Jaskier’s arms to wrap around his neck for support, before settling his own hands on Jaskier’s waist. The bard took several deep and shuddering breaths. The pair breathed together for a moment, with varying degrees of shakiness. In. Out. In-- and out.
“I’m,” another shaky breath, “I’m sorry,” Jaskier stuttered, voice muffled from where it was pressed into Geralt’s collarbone.
“Don’t apologize,” Geralt rumbled, returning to his previous task of rubbing warm circles against Jaskier’s spine. “It wasn’t your fault,” the Witcher closed his eyes and pressed his nose next to Jaskier’s ear and inhaled deeply. Juniper berries. “I was just worried for you,” he said the last part so quietly Jaskier only heard it for their proximity.
Jaskier pulled back again, and Geralt let him. The bard’s usually playful blue eyes looked scared as they searched Geralt’s own yellow stare. The Witcher brought a hand up to cup the side of Jaskier’s face and gently rubbed his thumb along the smaller man’s cheek. “Your face is still cold,” he breathed quietly into the air between them. Jaskier moved his arms from where they’d fallen into his lap to slide his hands into Geralt’s hair, fingers brushing against the larger man’s jaw on the way. The Witcher felt his breath hitch.
“Yours is warm,” Jaskier whispered, gently working his fingers through a small tangle he’d found. Geralt wasn’t sure what overcame him in that moment, but the white wolf inside him was howling and all he could do to relieve the ache was to lean in and press his warm lips to Jaskier’s cold ones. The poet sighed against him in a way that said he’d been holding his breath. Geralt brought his other hand up to complete the cradle around Jaskier’s face, and the two were utterly entangled in each other.
One may read endlessly about sweet unhurried kisses between maidens and knights and so on but no description on paper or otherwise could fully capture the soft nature of the poet and the Witcher in that moment, pressed so closely one would think they simply popped into existence already wrapped around the other.
They pulled apart, just enough for Geralt to watch Jaskier’s tongue dart out to wet his lips, the bard’s eyes slowly blinking open to meet Geralt’s gaze.
“I think we ought to go to bed now,” Jaskier’s voice was barely audible as if he were afraid to break whatever spell hung over the two.
“I’ll make sure you stay warm,” Geralt’s tone was just as soft, his thumbs rubbing idly over the thin skin under Jaskier’s eyes. The bard smiled gently.
From across the campsite, Roach snorted at the pair and turned away from them. The mare shook out her coat and pulled her ears flat, before bowing her head and nodding back to sleep. Geralt’s faint laughter floated into the night air, and Jaskier’s soon followed.